REQUIEM: the Vampire, Javert
by Corvid Angel
Summary: Inspector Javert has been turned vampire against his will, and struggles to deal with a sadist Marquis, a twisted plot for revenge, Valjean, lunatics, bloodsuckers, his new condition and the Law. Parts of this piece have been resurrected from an abandoned colab, but are mine. Les Mis characters property of Victor Hugo, all others are products of my sick imagination! Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

REQUIEM: The Vampire Javert

Chapter 1

Morgue

Gilles Previer sniffed the air and grimaced. There were few things that could entice him to enter the morgue, but today his superiors had enumerated most of them. Someone had to attend, provide identification, and order disposal of the remains. The deceased had been a police inspector, after all.

The damp, grey corridor, poorly lit, stretched before him, as inviting as a walk to the gallows. He paused briefly at the desk, where the attendant took his name and pointed him toward the third door. Typical! His destination was fated to be the room furthest away, deepest in the bowels of this wretched monument to death.

His pace was quick and steady; the sooner he could dispense with formalities, the sooner he would be back outside in the comparatively fresh air of dust and smoke. He paused only long enough to read the yellowed placard tacked on the wall. 'Examination Room'.

Rather a moot point, Previer quietly mused. What need did any of these poor devils have for an examination? Perhaps the administrators thought 'Necropsy' was too callous a word? The door was partly open, and so the sergeant pushed it further and stepped over the threshold, to find himself practically gagging from the stench.

Far to his right, another door stood open, and through it came the sound of water, sprayed from a hose. He could see a workman in black apron and boots, washing down a naked and elderly female corpse, hanging from the wall. Near to choking on his lunch, Previer turned his head and coughed behind a fist. The rest of his surroundings were just as grim.

Near the center of the room a tall man, fair-haired and wearing spectacles, stood beside a slate top table. The fellow was in his shirt sleeves, wearing a badly soiled apron, and brandishing a scalpel. There was a body on the table, heavyset and ruddy skinned. The sergeant mistook the corpse for a man, possibly a Moor. A second glance proved it had walked in life as female, and the settling of blood had given the skin its dark cast. As a police officer, he was familiar with such conditions, though his prior chance encounters with such situations were more than sufficient for him.

Two or three attendants were working around the room, oblivious to the visitor, filing charts, carrying buckets, or pushing a scrub broom near ta drain in the floor.

"I beg your pardon?" The gentleman beside the table finally spoke. "Is there something I can do for you, sergeant?"

The caller was only to happy to focus attention on the speaker, who smiled politely and wiped his blade on a gore smeared apron.

"Yes, I was sent by headquarters." Previer explained in brief. "You are the doctor?"

"Ah yes. We've been waiting for you. I am Dr. Bouvier. " He stepped around the table, idly cleaning his hands with a rag that seemed already covered to its limit in filth. He motioned to one of the assistants. "Number 47, please."

The officer was obliged to wait as the young workman went to fetch the mentioned 'Number 47'.

"You are alone?" The doctor seemed surprised.

"Yes, sir. And I apologize for the delay. They are rather busy in the ward today, and I was the first man available."

"And you have some knowledge of the deceased? There was a card in his pocket, but we can't say with any certainty it is the same man."

"Inspector Javert." Previer pursed his lips and nodded. "I will recognize him readily enough, I should think. That is, unless he suffered an injury to his face?" The sergeant felt himself wince unintentionally; how better to make an unpleasant duty worse, than to add a mutilation?

A metal cart had now been delivered, and a corpse, shielded by a greasy canvas shroud, lay stretched on it. Bouvier excused his man with a wave of hand, and rather abruptly, turned the canvas sheet down, revealing the body to midsection. Previer was shocked by the tactless motion, but this time did not flinch.

"Found wedged under a boat. Scared some poor fool half to death." The doctor related the essential facts in an indifferent tone, though he seemed to be admiring the wax-like figure, as if a sleeping loved one. "You'll note I have not as yet done an invasive exam." Here Bouvier ran the back of a finger along the lifeless chest, demonstrating the absence of incision. "Do you recognize him?"

The sergeant stared for a few silent moments. The corpse seemed smaller, somehow, then a man of Javert's height- but was that not always the way with reclining figures? The hair was full, thick and black, bordered by well kept side whiskers. The skin appeared a bit pale, somewhat moreso than blood had shown it in life. Shoulders broad, arms leanly muscled, chest well formed and as smooth as one would find on a youth. He would not have thought a man of Javert's years and habits could possess so ageless an appearance behind all that starch and regulation.

"It is Javert." Previer confirmed. "You've determined the cause?"

"Without an internal study, I can give rudimentary conclusion that he drowned. When stripped and prepared, quite a quantity of river water was expelled from his mouth. He was obviously alive when he entered the water." Almost affectionately, Bouvier rifled through the dark thatch of hair that crowned the dead man's head, to further explain. "There is no evidence of a blow, no swelling, or fracture demonstrated on palpation. No entry nor exit wound of projectile or blade anywhere- the body is in remarkable health- apart from being dead, of course. The only mar seems to be a redness at the side of his throat, in one area, here."

"Could he have been throttled, or strangled?" Previer offered, as he might on any investigation. He diverted his gaze from the doctor's face, to the area mentioned.

"Well, I can tell you that the wound was not postmortem, some damage to the body as it floated along with the current. Notice the darker region? Indicating an effusion of blood to the vicinity? It appears to be a slight irritation, in response to an eruption of the skin, possibly a boil, or other pustule. Hmmm. Or the infected bites of a flea. Almost as if he attempted to puncture and drain the infection himself. In any event, your man suffered this injury sometime prior to his death, but not specifically at the time of death. There's the absence of further marks and discolored bruising as one would find from a ligature, or manual strangulation. And no defensive bruising, which leads me to believe it is not related to cause."

"Very well. Death by drowning." The officer had seen, and smelled, quite enough. "If you feel confident enough without…cutting him?"

Bouvier shrugged. He was happy to forego this routine procedure, having a backlog of corpses already prepared and awaiting his attention, all cases of questionable death. If the police felt no need to pursue the matter, neither would he.

"I understand suicide is suspected?" The doctor remarked casually and tossed the cover back in place with little show of humanity or respect. Previer seemed disturbed by the notion that Javert would take his own life. "You needn't act surprised, sergeant. There were plenty of rumors concerning a missing Inspector, long before he surfaced. There was no note found in his belongings, and I detect no smell of gin or any alcohol that might indicate he fell into the water as a result of being drunk. No matter. Will the family be expected to collect him?"

"He has no family." Previer had surprised himself with such an abrupt reply, and almost sheepishly attempted to soften it. "At least, I don't believe so."

"Hm. I suggest you have someone at your office make a thorough search of his personal records. I would hate to see him tossed into a pauper's lot, prematurely. Especially as an outraged relation or two could prove most aggravating to your office as well as mine after the fact. Unless your department or some friends would care to see to his arrangements?"

Previer already knew that was unlikely, unless someone from Javert's past, perhaps with a odd sense of loyalty, were to appear. But all this would take time to discover or disregard.

"Where will you keep him?"

"Not here, despite what you may assume about our facilities." The doctor waved a man forward, took a ledger from him and then had the mortal remains of Inspector Javert taken away. "He has been identified, there is not inquest requested and we are under no obligation to retain him further. For the duration, I can see he is removed to the holding vault at St. Vincent's yard, if that is convenient for you?"

Previer thought a moment; as the only representative of the department, he was responsible for this decision. He could easily sign the release that would place the remains in an unmarked public plot, provided by the auspices and expense of the State. Still, it would perhaps be better to err on the side of caution.

"Very well. You will have him redressed and placed in a plain box, removed to St. Vincent's holding vault. I am sure any possible family would appreciate that we afford him some semblance of dignity."

"As you wish, sergeant. I will just need you to sign the papers for disposal." Bouvier made his notes regarding disposition to the vault, and handed his visitor the ledger.

As simple as that; a few strokes of a pen and Previer would be free to escape the miserable sights and stench of the morgue, for sunlight and more breathable air. It was ironic, that in time those same few strokes may be the only witness or acknowledgment given the Inspector's life- or death.


	2. Chapter 2

ReVamp 2

Within hours of Previer's visit, the mortal remains of Inspector Javert had been removed without ceremony to a holding vault as requested. Dr. Bouvier was a busy man and had forgotten the matter as soon as the corpse had been rolled away. The autopsy had been refused by an officer of the law and cause of death given and accepted as drowning. Number 47 was no longer Bouvier's responsibility.

Murmurs of suicide persisted but briefly, among those officials who had been acquainted with the deceased. Even these rumors were lost in the wake of more pressing concerns as life _did_ continue, regardless of one man's loss. Crime did not mourn nor sleep and the police were soon busy with more immediate problems of Paris, and the safety of its citizens. If the question of suicide again arose, it was only as a passing private thought by someone who had found a page or report with Javert's handwriting. And if the Inspector had indeed taken his own life, it was a matter for the Almighty.

It was perhaps the greatest irony that the one person moved to any degree by the Inspector's death was the convict, Jean Valjean. The unfortunate Valjean had spent years the victim of Javert's attention, first as a prisoner in Toulon, and then for what seemed an eternity afterward, in a quest to return the escaped Valjean to prison. Even now, despite death, there was no freedom from the memory.

Jean had suspected Javert's intent when they parted company beside the Seine. There would be nowhere else for the man to go, if he was to allow Valjean freedom. The news of the Inspector's demise, following the discovery of his body, had garnered only a few lines of newsprint. Reading it, Jean had felt a stirring he did not expect, and was consumed by a sadness that lasted for days.

Javert had been a tireless nemesis, when all Valjean had wanted was peace- the chance to sleep and wake without fear being his first thought. He wanted what any man would want; a chance to live and raise the child God had entrusted to his care. Yet this bane to Jean's existence had perhaps ended his life in trade. There would never be a way to truly know, or repay such a sacrifice, no matter had been Javert's purpose.

But had twenty years of torment not been enough?

It was over, no matter the reasoning or forces behind it. Valjean would privately mourn a man he had never truly known. There were no further published announcements, no notice of burial, nothing that would normally accompany the death of another man, beloved of family and friends.

Anonymity was to be expected, for a man like Javert. Valjean would not have dared to show his face even if a gravesite had been disclosed. He tried to imagine the relentless hunter stilled by death, silenced in the blackness of a lonely grave, the only monument to this life the memory of those who had hated or feared him. As one who worked ceaselessly for what he believed was the cause of justice, it was the most ignoble end and the greatest injustice of all.

Other eyes, too, had seen the announcement, heard the rumors, knew of Javert's passing, but would not be quick to were the eyes that in fact been the last to see the man alive, and the being that had for a brief moment held that life in its hands.

LeMort was what they called him these days, as well as Marquis, or the master. None of these were his true name or title, but had been given to him- or taken by him- over the numberless years.

The Marquis had actually been searching the broadsheets for word of the man's death, and listening to tavern conversations for any bit of gossip on the subject. The rumors of suicide practically made him giddy- not that burial in sanctified ground would have been a problem in any event. LeMort was pleased enough, for now, to relive those final moments over in his head.

It had been a chance encounter, purely accidental and this made the meeting all the more delicious. There had been two men when Monsieur the Marquis discovered them. It had been an evening uneventful, as he had tired of the courtesans and courtiers who frequented his hall. He had dismissed the entourage and gone off alone, to feed well and spend time as he had once done so long ago, deep in thought and parrying memories. He began to consider a change of scene, as Paris since the Revolutions had lost its spark.

It was the conversation between the two, strangers to him, that distracted his wandering thoughts. Remaining a shadow, the Marquis was inclined to listen, perversely drawn to inspect the lives of others for amusement. It was never simply what was said, but what was understood and could be read from the heart.

_So much pleasure could be drawn from the misery of humankind!_

It was an interesting pairing, these men, the heat of their differences opposing a curious, almost affectionate attachment they shared; it was wonderfully provocative, even to the jaded Marquis. He understood what was transpiring, being a creature once human himself, and he found it exhilarating. Here was strength, and dedication, and unquenchable loyalty, one to a God and the other, the law of men. There was desire, and agony, and all the delicious, painfully _human _elements that had been lacking in his court of late. Yes, his followers were amusing at times, devoted to a fault, but _this_ exchange being secretly observed filled his senses with a passion he had believed lost.

LeMort knew their minds, felt their thoughts, and understood how volatile a combination they were. Still, there was no desire for or attempt made toward violence. When they had done, God's Man turned away to quit the area. He passed closely enough for his scent to be drawn clearly, teasing the unseen watcher with promise of virility, and virtue- and just a hint of secret sin. Despite the temptation, the Marquis let him pass, certain that he could collect the man later if wanted. Pious Christians were not among his favorite tastes, being too much like a dull diet of boiled potatoes on the tongue, suitable only if there is nothing else to satisfy an appetite. LeMort much preferred meals rich in spice- the more exotic, the better. Primary interest was focused then on the one called 'Inspector'.

_The fellow was a feast to the senses! _

He practically brimmed with pain and regret, the crushing dread of failure and weakness and yet at the same time he burned with such strengths that would a shame to waste. So much was left unrealized, unrequited and unfulfilled, and it had brewed over a lifetime, untouched by others of the Marquis' kind.

LeMort savored the man's scent, and even licked the air in anticipation.

Now this 'Inspector' was about to end his life, or in the very least was thinking of nothing else.

The Marquis shivered with delight, feeling vibrant and exhilarated in the presence of such misery. It was a misery for once not of his making and yet practically served to him on a platter. And the man was on the brink of ending it all! It was almost too perfect! The temptation to turn this despair to his own use was overpowering, and yet the Marquis denied himself a moment longer.

How marvelous a thought, to take this wretched creature who seeks release in death and grant him an eternity of that tortured life! LeMort had done things far worse, and in fact thrived on them- but it had been so long since he had so completely destroyed another! It was one thing to glimpse the fear in dimming eyes and savor that fleeting moment, and quite another to prolong the agony, to enjoy it again and anew as long as one pleased.

This Inspector would be exquisite. He was already in hell, and the Marquis decided then and there it was time in his lengthy existence for a new diversion. He would take just enough from the man to induce that black, dreamless sleep and then let him fall in the river, dishonored. It would be lovely to deny him that last release! It would be the final failure in a life of so many others, and he would remain in deathly slumber until ransomed from oblivion whenever the master chose to call.

The Marquis would put him away, just for a bit, and retrieve this new toy once there was room in the nursery. Some of his hangers-on would have to be dealt with and perhaps gone before he would perfect his latest pleasure.

Taking him was a thing beautiful in its simplicity.

The shadow overtook Inspector Javert before he could touch the water. What should have been a short drop broken by cold black rushing water was suddenly reversed in the haze of a dream. Higher and higher, straight up in the crisp night air above the City man and shadow rose. The thought of one's soul expelled from the body may have come to mind, if Javert could have thought anything just then.

Paris was a dazzling ocean of light below, pocked with more stars than the heavens. Through eyes made drowsy by the shade's embrace, Javert gazed senseless and weak at the scene, a curious almost blessed peace filling him.

_Good, good. Do not struggle, my lovely. You are safe. And you are mine._

There was at once an icy cold rush of pain at Javert's throat, and for a moment muted lips fought to cry out in surprise. The stinging cold swept through his veins, as if his blood had turned as frigid as the Seine. Was this death? Had he succeeded? Shocked rigid, he now lost feeling, as a strange numbness claimed his limbs first and more gradually, his mind. At the last, losing consciousness, the lights of Paris seemed to rush up toward him like a million daggers of ice.

When Javert's body finally entered the river, he was already dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Requiem:

The Vampire, Javert:

Chapter 3

"Oh, _do_ come along, you miserable cretins!"

Normally, the Marquis would have spared his words and simply struck out without warning, but he was in fine spirits this evening and not about to let these young ones ruin it. LeMort flexed his fingers, still contemplating discipline, and even halted beneath the streetlamp while the giggling pair caught up to him. _Children._ He shook his head in disgust, a long red curl falling over his brow which he shook quickly back in place.

The young men, rather handsome despite their infantile behavior, were sharing a private joke about recent prey. Not very long ago, before their abduction from the world of light, they spoke and acted much the same. They had been students, known to each other in life, though crossed over to their new existence weeks apart. LeMort, having introduced the fair-haired boy to his court long before all that nasty barricade business, soon realized few of his faithful could tolerate such a pup. He then introduced a second high-minded and ill-mannered tyke to the enclave, as much to amuse the first boy as it was to torment the Old Ones.

He had never bothered to learn their names, or if he heard them, immediately forgot. He quickly labeled them Hobble and the Gypsy, as his private joke. Hobble had a limp which he had yet to conquer, and the Gypsy, who held no great love of that people, had earned his name for restless wandering as much for his dark hair and eyes. _I could have just as easily named him Wiggles._

Names of course were never important, and especially as these two were to LeMort but temporary and insignificant additions to his following. He would eventually grow bored as he often did with new toys and break them- usually at the neck. For now, they served a purpose and so he afforded them patience.

"You are both rather full of yourselves this evening." the Master observed. This of course caused the pair to again giggle like schoolgirls, as they were in fact full of someone else. "I suppose it would do no good to remind you, you have been given a great gift? I wouldn't like to think I have wasted immortality on idiots."

"Apologies, Marquis." Gypsy managed to regain a more serious tone. "But it's all still wonderfully new! And unbelievable!"

"Puppies." LeMort sighed with a hint of paternal affection. "If it is an affront to your Godless intellect, I can send you back to your old life- oh, but there isn't a life to return to, is there?"

Both young men understood completely without further explanation. Their lives had ended, with a little help from the Marquis. Gone were the noble aspirations once heard at street corners and coffeehouses. Those who had been their companions were all dead or imprisoned, and both Hobble and Gypsy realized they were the lucky ones; they were not as dead as some. They were free. Perhaps they had lacked the resolve of their student brothers, and doubted at the last moment their devotion to a cause. It was perfectly fine to play at being rebels, quite another thing to fight for it. Life was fragile and precious then, but now? They were Gods.

"Where are we going?" Hobble asked as LeMort stepped from the halo of the lamp. This time the pair were quick to keep in step.

"Thank your stars I find you so charming." the Marquis advised. "Of all my friends, you are the two I have chosen for something special."

The statement filled them with a curious mix of pleasure and dread. They had been in LeMort's court long enough to observe his mercurial moods, his vicious tempers, and cruel humor. They had seen his favorites praised and lavished with rare secrets of arcane knowledge and skill, singled out to benefit from the Master's wisdom. They had also seen a favored one fall, to be dishonored, tortured and broken, for some minor infraction, or unknown whim. To be singled out by LeMort for special attention was either the highest honor, or sentence of lasting death.

Yet tonight, his mood was playful. The Marquis jumped ahead in an instant, his action unseen and yet he was once more yards ahead and laughing. Neither young man had learned this particular trick as yet, and were forced into a quick trot in order to close the gap. Naturally, LeMort delighted in tormenting them in this fashion, all the way to the cemetery gates. Only then did he pause long enough for them to reach his side.

"St. Vincent's?" Hobble seemed surprised, recognizing the burial ground from earlier days. "What are we doing here?"

The Master frowned with enough exaggeration to indicate he was playing the jester.

"You cannot still be hungry!" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Tsk, tsk, tsk! Perhaps if you did not weigh us all down with useless questions you would already _know_ what we are doing here!" He snapped his fingers defiantly and was immediately well inside the gate. "Well? Come, come, come!"

Gypsy was quick to follow, pushing open the barrier with little effort, as he was curious and anxious not to offend. His companion paused to look behind, as if afraid they might be seen. He had yet to lose that childish mortal fear of punishment for transgression. Reminding himself that no one but the Marquis could hurt him now, he hurried to join the others.

Cloaked in the shroud of a moonless night the trio passed silently among the graves, until LeMorte came to a sudden halt. Gyp was about to ask another of those pointless 'weighty' questions, but thought better of it. Instead, the novice pair watched the Marquis sniff the air and turn slowly to face a large tree, thick with leaves, a few paces off.

"You do not fool me." he spoke in a chilling sing song voice. "I know you are there." Neither the Gypsy nor Hobble had matured to their new life enough to sense what their Master obviously could. They looked at each other in apprehension and shrugged, but waited.

"Hello?" came a woman's voice from the branches above. "Is someone there?" Gyp nearly burst out laughing, but he was quickly shushed by his companion.

"Knock knock knock." LeMort replied.

"You aren't the tax man, are you?"

This time it was Hob who broke into a laugh over what he felt was a truly ridiculous situation.

"Merci, you have hurt my feelings." Here the Master put a hand to his heart in feigned distress. "You have not forgotten your dear Marquis, have you?"

"Marquis! Is that you? Heavens, I wasn't expecting visitors- my hair is a mess!"

"Come down, Merci, won't you? Come and meet your new brothers."

Once more the pair exchanged glances, hardly knowing what to expect. It was odd enough that LeMort spoke to a tree, and stranger still when the tree replied, and beyond belief that they were to be considered its siblings. Clearly, who or whatever had drawn the Master's attention was at least a acquaintance.

There was some rustling of leaves, a few branches stirred and then, from behind the black tree trunk a woman appeared- or at least something very much like a woman. She took a few steps forward, out of the protective shadows, and stood at a safe distance, cocking her head like a quizzical dog.

Hobble started giggling again, finding the situation as wonderfully absurd as the creature's appearance. She was bare foot and bare-legged but for with a few ragged and dirty petticoats. A chemise, corset and corset cover, equally in need of a wash, were half hidden beneath the tattered remains of an cavalry pelisse. Loose strands of the jacket's braid and moth-eaten fur dangled in irregular bits like disparate fringe. Her face, also somewhat dirty, seemed oddly serene, almost aglow with secret piety, despite slight evidence of scratches. Her hair was less at peace, tangled wildly and surrounding her head like a lion's mane. She was not entirely plain, and may have even been considered pretty once, but now she appeared no better than a common trollop of the lowest class.

"Merci!" The Marquis sounded genuinely pleased to see her and opened his arms as if intending to greet her with an embrace. The creature took a step back abruptly to avoid this, and then let out a brief, giddy laugh. LeMort took no offense and merely swept an arm wide in a gesture of presentation, looking toward the young man behind him. "You have two new brothers, and very pretty, too. Come see. This is Hobble, with the golden hair, and this dark beauty here is Gypsy. Do you like them?" He turned back to her, clasping his hands together before his breast, as if genuinely seeking approval. The boys thought this deferential behavior from the Marquis was extraordinary, and imagined briefly that she had some sort of hold over him. Could this pathetic excuse for a woman in some way be a superior?

Merci laughed again as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, and eyed the boys critically.

"Pussy has been in the cream again." she smirked. "Tired of snacking on fish heads. Pretty boys, lovely toys." She looked sharply at LeMort. "Can I have one?"

"Oh, no no, mon petite. They are young men of independent mind. And spoken for." The Marquis looked slyly back in their direction. "Poor Merci. She's perfectly mad, you know. We don't see her very often at court. Or ever. How have you been?"

"HowhaveIbeen what?" she slurred. "Keeping? How-have-I-been-keeping? I tend not to keep very much. And seem to have misplaced my shoes."

"Whatever are you doing here, in the cemetery? "

"I smelled something sweet. Something dark and wet." She turned her attention toward the young men again, stepping a bit nearer to address them. "Sometimes lovers come here to meet- some people! No proper respect for the dead. Or maybe it's just a slut and a renter. Anyway, I can get new shoes tonight if I wait." She looked down and studied their feet. "Those are pretty."

The pair shifted uneasily, at a loss of what to say and in fact not certain they actually wanted to say anything. If the Marquis was not going to defend them, or at least distract her, they felt they might have to fight to keep their shoes. Merci looked at their faces again, closely now.

"Merci is not my real name." she explained in a greatly exaggerated whisper. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, yes, thank you." Hobble quickly assured. She nodded and turned away, satisfied she would not have to share her supper if one ever showed up. Both young men were relieved by this slight retreat, thinking she seemed harmless enough, though obviously one of LeMort's strangest mistakes. Why did he cross a lunatic?

"Not that it's any of _my _business-" she spoke with a broad sweep of her arms. "But if not on the prowl, why ever would three such lovely gentlemen be in my yard at this hour?"

The Marquis simply grinned. It was a cold, frightening smile of serpent-like quality that made the boys think he was about to strike the woman down.

"Such heavy questions you give me." LeMort waved them forward suddenly. "Well, Merci, as you are here you may as well join us- it is so very good to see you- it has been too long!"


	4. Chapter 4

REQUIEM:

The Vampire, Javert

chapter 4

Merci lagged behind, well aware with their intended destination. LeMort was leading them to the holding vault-V-3- and its single lonely occupant, about whom she was expected to know nothing. Paces behind Hob and Gyp she quietly sang a nursery rhyme, as much to entertain as to occupy her thoughts. She could take no chance thinking just now, especially at so close a range, in case the Master was listening inside.

The boys found it hard to keep from laughing at her, certainly convinced she was out of her mind. No sooner had the door in the hillside come into view, when a nod from LeMort opened it violently on its groaning hinges. Now he waved his youngsters ahead.

"The pair of you. You may unwrap my present."

Taking direction, the boys hurried ahead, entered and descended the steps, while Merci stopped where she was, just outside at the Master's side.

"Shoes?" she whispered hopefully.

"Possibly. But no, too large I think. Come and see."

Gyp and his partner had already pulled off the casket lid, and tossed it aside with an echoing thud. Hobble stood looking down in disbelief, with his brother in blood kneeling beside the box with a similar expression twisting his handsome features.

"I know him!" Gypsy exclaimed.

"Oh? Personally?" LeMort already knew the story, already knew that some of the students had been acquainted with this Inspector in life and that this pair knew of him at least since crossing. He almost glided in dance across the floor, leaving Merci but a silhouette at the top of the steps. The Master was pleased that his youngsters seemed startled by the familiar corpse. "No matter. I had the distinct pleasure of encountering M. Inspector by the river just before he could leap."

Merci was mumbling her songs now, not wishing to interfere with the exchange that she knew was about to take place. It was clear they had come to the vault with only one intention, though neither boy wanted to believe it.

"He is to become one of _us?_" Clearly, the Gypsy did not approve.

"Certainly." LeMorte shooed them aside with a brisk wave of hand. "You do not think I brought you here to tell bedtime stories, do you?" Suddenly, Merci was there, beside the coffin, on her knees gazing in at the cold ivory countenance as if for the first time. "Do you like him, Merci?"

She laughed again, not about to fall for his tricks. The last time she liked someone, it had been her brother, and the Marquis had been most cruel.

"I don't see what's so special." she shrugged and looked at the young men standing quietly to the side. "Why are you afraid of him?"

LeMort was kneeling now, on the opposite side of the open box, as if a proud parent gazing at his firstborn son.

"Memories." he sighed. "They know him by rumor, am I right? He had been an officer of the law once. They had certain friends who ran afoul of Monsieur. Had it not been for me, he would be food for worms." He smiled broadly, looking back toward the others. "What a clever idea to reunite you three. And just think, you will have all eternity to work out your differences!"

The Marquis was so pleased with himself that he never suspected there was more life to the body now than should be expected, and that a heart once slowed by his timely intervention beside the Seine had already begun to beat once more. Deftly he sliced his thumb open on a waistcoast button kept sharp for occasions such as this. To the combined horror of Hobble and the Gypsy, he slid the bleeding finger between cold lips, to press against Javert's teeth. Merci watched breathlessly, while her new brothers were ready to object. It must have been of great importance to them, if they were willing to challenge the Marquis.

"But you can't!" Hobble had the temerity to speak. "He _hates_ our sort!"

"But I can." LeMort reminded, still delighted with the poisonous alliance he was creating. Their merry little childish lives were about to change, and he could not wait to watch the fireworks. "If it troubles you so much, just keep in mind, your Inspector will likely hate his new life even more than he hates you! You see? A silver lining to your cloud!"

He did not allow Javert to take too much, well aware of the powerful effects his ancient blood could have. He wanted to keep this new prize in stasis a bit longer and allow him to wake gradually. If he was to revive suddenly, with all present, it might become an embarrassing, even uncontrollable situation, and LeMort did not want to have to kill the man simply to keep order. He withdrew his thumb suddenly with a satisfied sigh.

Merci had not taken her eyes off the Marquis. If she had for a moment gazed down at the sleeping Javert, she might betray some hint of emotion, which might in turn be perceived by the Master, and lead to disaster. Even now she could not even imagine such things for fear of detection.

LeMort noticed her attention and began to tease her, holding out the still bleeding thumb in her direction. The moment she leaned forward to take a taste, he withdrew it. It was like teasing a dog with a bone, or piece of meat, and he enjoyed the game again and again, until he at last allowed her a brief swallow. It was soon withdrawn and he was on his feet, straightening his coat and smoothing his hair.

"Cover him." was all the instruction given. LeMort was outside, and Merci quick to join him, while the boys fussed with the securing the lid. "You really must come visit us in court sometime, Merci." His invitation was sincere, though not entirely well-meaning. Merci's behavior and appearance was offensive to many of his more civilized courtiers, though the Master delighted in playing pranks on her to the amusement of all. He was as responsible for making her a lunatic just as surely as he had made her undead. "It has been a very dull place without you."

The young men were out of the vault now, and on the Marquis' nod the door once again closed without a touch. He gave the pair a quick smirk, having ruined their evening with the prospect of what was to come in the continued presence of Inspector Javert. There was suddenly the dull distance sound of a convent bell, summoning the nuns to morning prayer. Merci shot a surprised glance in its direction.

"I'm late for the theatre!" she declared. She spared a quick look to her new acquaintances. "You're welcome! I must go! Marquis."

She was off in an instant, running into the dark as if pursued by the hounds of hell. LeMort smiled after her, thinking how their encounter had been a rare treat and never suspecting any more to it.

"What will happen to him now?" Hobble gave no thought to tossing another bothersome question into the broken conversation. He had been brought across without so much secret or ceremony.

"He will wake in a day or two. Find himself in a curious situation, feeling desperately ill, and likely make for some familiar place, if his brain is working at all. Otherwise he will be drawn to us at the Hall. If he isn't, we will find him. I will know where he is." He feigned a pout. "Oh, you are treated so unfairly. How could I bring such a monster back into your new and perfect lives, you are thinking. Ah! He is not the monster, my pets, and neither am I. We are all monsters, you must understand. And as the vesper bell has played its tune, it is time for the monsters to go home."

"Marquis-" The Gypsy was still not done with questions. "Who is she?"

"She is Merci, the madwoman, the fool." LeMort, content to walk for now, lead them away toward the gate. "She is nearly as old as I, and more powerful than you can imagine. Of course, she is insane so power does not account for much. I keep her around for amusement, and the memories."

"I don't understand why you would chose a madwoman-"

"Ah! That is the perfection, right there. I did not chose a madwoman. I chose a sweet young man and his devoted sister, and saved them from a horrible fate. Or saved one of them anyway. It was spring, as I recall. They were on the run, I supposed you would say. Their family was very unhappy when they learned that brother and sister had been acting as man and wife. Yes, yes, you are thinking, how terrible, but I am telling you the truth. The family was wealthy, the children had no discipline at all! Father remarried, and there were more children- but these two! Shocking!" LeMort was fooling no one; he found the greatest of perverse pleasure in mortal misdeeds, and having discovered their secret, delighted in watching them for months.

"I was not yet the Marquis you see today, but still a man of influence. I shared with them my secret, and they were both most willing to accept my invitation. Think of it! Escape from the restrictions of church and the law of man- an eternity to do as you wish! Oh, but this much you know, as you yourselves have been favored with the same gift. They could think of little else but each other, and their wanton and lustful excesses." He sighed fondly at the memory. "But when it came time to join me, I had changed my mind at least in regards to her husband-brother. She crossed first- and then I tore him to pieces before her eyes. Little wonder her mind slipped."

For once, the pair was struck speechless. They knew how the Master could be, but this was a new sort of cruelty. Secretly they felt pity for the creature Merci, despite the fact they were themselves guilty of taking advantage of mortals.

Taking blood to survive was still new for them, and treated as a game. Seldom would they drain someone to the point of death, though LeMort sometimes stepped in for the coup de grace, mainly for his own pleasure. He was merely teaching them, he would say, on how to disguise their feeding habits with staged accidents or the like. It was never a good idea to leave any trace of their work- or existence- behind.

Having heard Merci's story recounted as plainly and merrily as they had, neither Gypsy or Hobble could react. They simply followed along at their Master's heels, and fairly forgot the incident at the vault.

"Now, no more questions!" LeMort decided with a wave of his hand. He needn't have bothered.


End file.
